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your beautiful inside out
Today one of the women I manage at work paid me a compliment, and as always I brushed it off with a

no I’m not

She continued to say, how I shouldn’t hide behind the camera, and well it got me thinking
I’ve always had a problem with the way I look, and I guess most women do. We all have weight issues, ranging from a case of eating through comfort or not eating to ease pain( which ever the case). We all hate certain features, let’s face it if we didn’t plastic surgery wouldn’t be a hit.
Through childhood, my parents did make me feel beautiful, through puberty/adolescent/ crappy high school years I was the original asian ugly Betty!
I was bullied profusely being a size 14, with braces and acne and Nhs glasses.
I had no real friends, as I was fairly anti- social, and then I left school after 6th form
Due to some circumstances, I was pushed out of a degree and into the world of work at the age of 18. Being in an adult environment I started gaining social skills, and showing my personality not caring about the way I looked.
A few years ago I met my love..and he made me feel beautiful. But I soon realised, he also had the power to make me feel ugly too.
I’m still not good with compliments
I still only feel beautiful when he tells me
But unless I start believing I’m beautiful, I’ll never shake off the feeling of never quiet being good enough
So I’m now a size 12, and I’m not happy with my weight but it keeps me warm..but I guess I’m going to wake up everyday feeling beautiful

I hadn’t washed or eaten and the only contact I’d had with the outside world was a 30 second phone call with my mum. I just lay under my duvet for hours at a time. No music, no TV, no fags, just my whirring thoughts and the polka dot sheets. Occasionally, I would get up to use the toilet and sip some water, but even that felt like a mountain to climb.

I was restless, something was crawling underneath my skin. I clawed at my neck and chest, leaving crimson scratches and bloody fingernails. I fell from the bed onto the bedroom floor, crying out for mercy, but no one was listening.

I couldn’t take it anymore, it was unbearable. I lay on my bed, pleading, crying out for some relief from the agonising pain that plagued my mind…

Identity is fascinating. If we didn’t find it fascinating, there would be no interviews, no memoir, no ‘I’, as such. To identify each other, we talk about interests, beliefs, our dreams, our likes and dislikes, our passions. We talk about where we think we belong, what our past has been, what our present is, and where we think we’re going. Or we are ‘rebels’ in some sense of the word – setting ourselves apart from the culture we grew up in, or apart from the culture that people attribute to us.

It fascinates me because I’ve noticed that my identity has shifted, along with how I define myself at any one time. I used to define myself by what I consumed: my favourite TV series, my taste in music, what I wore.

Nowadays identity is something I consider deeper, rooted in a sense of my experiences and how I’ve responded…

So here’s me..a budding photographer..a hard working individual who is almost a “jaqaline of all trades, master of none” sort of person who’s looking to make a mark on the world (no, not glory hunting or fame hungry) through my view and prospective on the world.
I take pictures, I try products
Simple as that!